


A Rush Of Blood Through The Head

by LewisMey



Category: The 100
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clarke can't keep it in her pants, Clarke is enchanted, Co-workers, F/F, Jasper is adorable and very gay, Lexa is rigid and aloof, My First Work in This Fandom, Sassy Raven, What else is new?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6976216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LewisMey/pseuds/LewisMey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An image flashes through Clarke's mind and she is suddenly not sure why she has been typing fiercely on her keyboard for the last hour when she doesn't even work for this company anymore. It's time to face the consequences. And time to face her co-worker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

She's not supposed to be here. She doesn't even know why'd she would be here. It's not like she does work here anymore. She quit. An hour ago she went into her boss's office and said some shady but remarkably true words to him. Slamming his door shut and storming out while passing her irritated colleagues was one of the best feelings she had in a long time.

But now she's prolonging her stay. Instead of gathering her few belongings she's doing a task that neither makes any sense, nor does it fill the void in her veins. It's running through her, filling her body, vibrating, shaking her to her inner core.

Clarke seems frantic. She has been on her edge since she started work this morning and everything feels strange. The keyboard leaves an awkward feeling on her fingertips. The screen she has been staring at for what feels like hours is blurry and captivating. She hates it.

She stops in her movements because she obviously had said it out loud. Clarke turns, but her box is clear. Nobody heard her. It's devastating. Just as she wants to turn back to her task, she stops dead in her tracks.

She's not supposed to be here. She's not even working here anymore. This needs to stop. Now.

She gets up, stretches lightly, and takes a step on the fluffy carpet. It's the dark kind of grey that is often mistaken for washed out black and it has seen years of footsteps imprinting weight and dirt on it. She sighs. It's a sigh full of regret.

She used to love this place. She loved to come here every day, to start the day with a warm cup of tea and to dig in to her work headfirst. She used to greet her colleagues happily, because it was a respectful and appreciated environment. And she used to feel excited to see her co-worker and desk companion Lexa. She would enter the office would have been greeted with a tight hug and together they would start the day with flirty banter, meaningful glaring and warm smiles. It was all because of her, because of Lexa.

Clarke halts. Where is Lexa, anyway? The source of all the good memories, the skillfully achieved projects?

Why hadn't she thought about her sooner?

She crosses the threshold to the next office and instantly feels tender arms thrown around her neck. She is kept in a whirlwind of soft brown curls. Lexa is just a bit taller than she is, but it doesn't bother her. She sinks into the embrace and buries her nose in the crook of Lexa's neck. Her scent is overwhelming. In an instant she's floating through a sea of fresh ocean water, a light breeze of fluffy clouds passing by. Oh god, how she missed this.

She hears a chuckle somewhere next to her ear and starts to retreat, obviously unhappy about having to leave the familiar smell and loosing the warm touch.  
Lexa's eyes are as bright as she remembered. There are slightly more wrinkles surrounding the edges, but she is content it makes Lexa appear even more beautiful. It suddenly hits her how much she must have missed this. Missed her.

Clarke takes her in, her tall but slender figure, a loose black tank top covering her body, blue skinny jeans clinging to her long legs. She adjusts her black rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose. It's a well studied movement, so typically her. It sends sparks through Clarke's body. They settle deep down. A pounding of blood, rising and falling. She really missed her.

This thought runs through her veins like an electric shock, a light buzz remaining in her lower abdomen. It feels giddy. It feels good. Lexa smiles while tugging one of her brown curls out of her face, and Clarke can't force herself to do anything else but kiss her. Right there, in the middle of the office. She doesn't care who might see them, it's strange though because it would normally bother her to no extent.

But now? She just wants to feel Lexa's lips on hers. Wants to feel their softness press against her own lips. She wants to taste her, enhance the feeling in her belly.  
Seconds pass before Lexa moves with her, before she returns the kiss. It's soft and innocent and they both stop for a moment to look at each other. This would be the time for both of them to retreat, to step back from each other, turn and continue with their tasks.

They don't. The next kiss is more intense. It's sloppier and you can tell that they still need to learn how to work with another. It's far from perfect, but somehow it just feels right for Clarke. All she can do is sink into the touch, succumb to the feeling of Lexa's lips on hers, taste her. Clarke's hands move on her own. She can't hold back a moan when she feels naked skin under her touch. Lexa's waist is soft to the touch and soon Clarke's hands are moving on their own accord. They find every exposed skin, travel under clothes, exploring depths.

It happens faster than it maybe should, but Lexa's top is discarded in seconds, while they are still kissing frantically. The kisses are deeper now, tounges colliding and dancing with each other. Clarke moves her against a bookshelf and they crash into it, still connected in every possible way. The rush is evident. Hands roaming, heated kisses, whimpers, groans when a lip is kept between teeth. When Lexa's bra comes off and Clarke can cover her hard nipples with a hot mouth, they slide to the ground, entangled, hot and bothered. It gets more intense. They are on fire. A thigh is pressed to Lexa's center, and a desperate moan escapes her swollen lips. Hipbones are moving, crotches are searching for friction. They stumble together, captivated in an intense feeling, a rush of blood through their heads. They're falling together, crushing in each other.

"Oh fuck," is the last thought Clarke can express, before she slips two fingers through warm, extremely wet folds and deep into Lexa.


	2. Chapter 2

She’s about five seconds away from going mentally insane. She clutches her fists viciously, feeling the urge to smash them right through the wooden desk she has been sitting at for hours. Through gritted teeth she exhales a long held breath. She mustn’t loose control. It is not an option. She needs to calm herself down. Deep breaths. She needs to take very deep, long breaths. Because exploding is the absolute wrong thing to do right now. So she closes her eyes.

It’s always better when the light is out. She is calmer then, at least she pretends she is, because her heartbeat is not giving it away. She takes a few shallow breaths. It leaves her on the edge as well, but it simultaneously relaxes her—even if it’s just barely visible.

Then she hears the loud bump again and yes, exploding is the absolute right thing to do just now.

"For fuck’s sake, Jasper, will you shut it, you freaking—" there is no ending this sentence, because Jasper’s stress ball hits her fair and square in the face.

She is startled at first, blinking rapidly and then the pain flashes like lightning and spreads from an already evident bump just about an inch north from her right eyebrow all over her face. She swallows hard, drowning the seething accusations, replacing them by unshed tears ready to drop at the rim.

"Oh, fuck, Clarke, I’m so sorry!" Jasper flounders on his way to her side, falling down to his knees. He looks utterly mortified, his wild hair bouncing around his worried eyes. "I, I didn’t mean to," he starts, but it seems he has no soothing words for her either.

Clarke sighs. It’s a surrendering sigh and she knows it. It means, that there is now way in hell that she is going to be mad at Jasper for aiming the small ball in her direction and actually managing to hit her anywhere important. Jasper has always been lousy at sports, especially at physical training involving round objects. Or boobs.

Her bursting laughter fills the tense air in the office. The unexpected movement of her face muscles is enough for her to wince, but the effect isn’t lost on Jasper. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. His body is tense as if he fears that she is about to eat him. Which she might. Later, with extra Barbecue sauce.

"Relax, Jas." Her voice is low and soft. The image of a desperate Jasper trying to cope with a beautiful woman’s bare chest is all she needs to calm down. "It’s all right." She continues. "I’m actually pleased that you managed to aim at all. I’m proud."

"Yeah, right," he grunts.

"No, I mean it." Clarke smiles a small, barely visible smile. "You were driving me insane earlier, you know that?"

"Figured." He crosses his legs and reaches for the small stress ball on the floor. "You were about to tear the desk in half, just by staring."

"Obviously. Well, care to explain?"

"What?"

"Why you were penetrating the office walls with that," she points vaguely to Jasper, "that thing."

He chuckles. "It’s just a bean bag."

Clarke shakes her head slightly. "No, it looks familiar. Here," she reaches out and turns the small ball in her hands. It’s oddly colored—some kind of rotten beige, she believes—with two big and very slimy blue eyes popping out of the center. "What’s it supposed to be anyway?" she deadpans. "Donald Trump?"

"No!" Jasper exclaims indignantly. "That’s Baby Sinclair!" Clarke’s face is stoic, so he adds a weak "From Dinosaurs? The 90’s TV show? With the puppets? Oh, well. Okay, maybe it looks a bit like Donald Trump."

Clarke watches him carefully, then adding: "And you were throwing it around because you wanted to emphasize your constant resentment to the Republicans?"

"No!" Jasper shouts. After a moment, he continues. "I mean, yes! I mean, no but, ah…" He looks up to Clarke, who is spinning lightly in her office chair. "Well, I was just…upset."

Clarke stops turning, planting her chin in one hand, resting her elbow on one knee. "About what?" She asks worriedly.

"It’s nothing," he says and she doesn’t buy it for a second.

"Jas, come on, don’t be a wuss."

He laughs at that, pure heartedly. "You know I always am, right?"

"True," Clarke nods, "but still…You can always try and free yourself from the chains your pure, innocent self has been trapped in."

He slaps her shin playfully.

"All right, shoot," she says more serious now. "What’s gotten into your head?"

He is serious now, it’s written all over his face. His eyes roam around, never stopping at anything for more than a second. He is fidgeting his hands, swiping his palms on stained jeans. 

Clarke reaches out, grabbing her long time co-worker and dear friend by his shoulders, shaking him lightly. "What’s wrong?"

The first syllables that come out of his mouth are barely audible. Clarke tilts her head to take a closer look at him, her fingers pressing shortly into his angular back. He looks up to her, still sprawled out in front of her. "I’m leaving, Clarke." His voice shakes a bit, but he manages to calm himself somehow. "I’m moving in with Monty."

Clarke’s eyes widen with disbelief. "Wh—what, well, shit, Jasper, that’s great!" The tension she felt rising suddenly lifts from her shoulders. She inhales deeply. "For a second I though you…Wait. Monty is moving here, isn’t he? Tell me he is!" Clarke’s voice takes up a notch. She rises from her office chair, taking Jasper with her. Now that they face each other whilst standing, Jasper’s lanky figure towers over Clarke, who clenches her fists at her side.

"You know he lives in Seattle," the young man with the untamable wisps of hair says slowly.

"Yeah." Her answer is nothing more than a breath.

"Look, I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now, but I got so busy applying for new jobs and juggling all the stuff one has to do when one’s about to move from one corner of the country to another." He pauses and then continues. "And I was kind of afraid to tell you." His smile is warm and loving. "Since we started at this company as two dorks, barely able to make decent coffee and—"

"You were a dork, I was delightful, thank you very much." Clarke interrupts drily.

Jaspers snickers. "True. Anyway, we’ve been fighting corporate douchebags, snippy desk clerks and the most unsuitable assistants pretending to be the heroes of might an money for…I don’t know, maybe five years…and you’ve become my best friend!"

"Apart from Monty."

"Well, yeah, okay, apart from Monty. But Clarke, I think I really like him and—"

"You mean you’re madly in love with him and you want him to be the father of your children. You want to go diaper shopping and watch the sunset in rocking chairs on your front porch, dressed in rainbow-colored Hawaiian shirts?"

"Noo…"

Her comical outburst is freeing. Both Jasper and Clarke hold on to each other while their bodies double over and shake with laughter. It takes them minutes to calm down, but afterwards it feels like a new, glooming connection has evolved.

"You know," he says while he wipes at his eyes, "I’ll probably miss you very much." He flashes a toothy grin at her and she can’t help the urge to hug him. So Clarke flings her arms around his neck and presses herself into him. He smells faintly of peanut butter, residues of their lunch break, and she can’t help the small sob that escapes her throat.

Gently, not to destroy the fragile moment they have, Jasper pushes her aside. However, his hands stay on her waist, and her face is curtained by long thick blonde hair.

"And apart from you, I’ll most definitely will miss your gorgeous hair. And your boobs."

"Go float yourself, Jas," Clarke says and slaps him across his head. The spark in her eyes and the wrinkled nose tell him that she’s not very offended.

A loud crack echoes through the room as the transparent office door suddenly bursts open. With two long strides a tanned woman appears right next to Clarke and spanks Jasper’s head just as much.

"Ouch!" He jumps and lifts his hands in defense. "What the—"

"Oh, never mind," says the rampant girl with a smug grin plastered on her face. "I just wanted to join the party."

Jaspers glares at the intruder, but he can’t keep a straight face. "Raven…"

The brunette slimes innocently. "Yes, dear?"

"Not that I complain or anything," Clarke cuts in, an eyebrow arched but amusement in her eyes, "but why did you slap him again?"

"He ate the last peanut butter sandwich the cafeteria had to offer and I had to survive Mission Control without my daily boost of peanut butter jelly time", Raven mocks.

"They don’t sell that at lunch and you know it!" Jasper retorts.

"He brings his own," Clarke adds matter-of-factly.

"And calling your weekly meeting with the IT department ‘Mission Control’ is just sad, Reyes, just saaaad!" He is about to emphasize his point by sticking his forefinger into Ravens ear, when a holler from the office door interrupts the friendly banter again.

"Yo, losers!"

The three co-workers turn their heads slowly in appalling unison.

"Freaking hell," the young girl at the door squeaks. "Did you guys escape from The Shining, or what?" She scratches her face, right next to her cute chin dimple.

"Should have said ‘Redrum’ for a change," Jasper whispers under his breath. Raven smiles at that.

Clarke is the first to recur to the subject at hand: "What’s up, O?"

With a flawless motion the addressed girl strokes a strand of hair behind her ear and props herself against the doorframe. "I thought you losers wanted to take a first blatant look at Jasper’s replacement."

There is an entertaining moment when Jasper and Raven bolt forward while screaming "Hell yes!!" and cornering one another in order to get to the door first. Clarke follows suit, just way more casual. When all of the four are huddled together in the small corner at the far end of the hallway just outside the office, Raven’s elbow pressing unpleasantly into Clarkes stomach, they spot the newcomer instantly.

Just a few doors down to the left a tall young woman in a grey tailored suit is standing rigidly next to Mr. Kane, head of department for foreign correspondents. She has her hands tightly clutched behind her back and the most stoic expression Clarke has ever seen on a person before. Her long brown hair is partly braided and neatly tied together at the back of her neck. She holds her head high, an unmoving posture which radiates authority and aloofness.

"Oh my god," Clarke says, as her stomach drops low.

"Cute, right?" Octavia adds.

"Cute? Are you blind, O? This woman is not cute, she’s drop dead gorgeous," Raven corrects quickly. "She is so fuckably hot, I would take her—"

"Shut it, Reyes, your gay is showing. Strongly. I advice a cold shower," Jasper huffs. "Go away, now."

"Can’t, melting already." Raven quips with a wink.

Octavia relents. "All right, there might be an appeal to h—"

"More likely a heart of steel," Jaspers snorts. "Her body language is so gelid, she might as well be competing with the north pole. Odds are high. I’ll bet on her." Jasper earns himself his third face slap. This time it’s Octavia’s hand. "Not fair," he whines.

"I beg to differ," she retaliates.

"O’s right, Jas, you’re biased. Hot stranger over there’s about to replace you." Raven chimes in. "Hey Clarke, what do you think?"

Three heads are turning towards her. But Clarke won’t be able to pay any attention to her friends. Because at just this moment green piercing eyes are meeting cobalt blue in wonderment.

Clarke’s breathing stops, halts, and struggles to keep a steady rhythm after the blonde raggedly exhales. Her gaze is fixed on the stranger. She tries to fully take her in—her proud composure, her heated stare—but Clarke is so completely captivated, she even forgets to be mad about the fact that Raven and Octavia knew about Jasper’s departure beforehand.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dibs.”

“Raven, you can’t call dibs on her,” Jasper is shocked. “She’s my replacement. Don’t you have any dignity?”

“No. Have not. Dibs. Very strongly,” Raven underlines by gesturing intensely. “I need to fill the void your absence will most definitely leave in me. She’s the only one who can save me and my shattered soul. Bless her for devoting her body to my needs…”

While motioning his pointer towards his open mouth, Jasper exaggeratedly dry heaves. It does not look pretty.

“…for patching up my weeping scars, for—”

“Guys…” Clarke interrupts.

“You know you called dibs on the last hot guy who walked the halls of this company about two weeks ago?” Octavia crossed her arms and bluntly glared at Raven.

“I did, didn’t I?” Raven confessed. “But! I wasn’t the one who went on a date with said guy on Monday. But I know who might have and who still hasn’t changed the sheets because, and I quote, ‘He smells like summer rain in an untouched forr—“

Octavia launches herself at Raven, crashing their bodies together, aiming to shut her mouth with bare hands. Jasper gets caught up in the hustle, desperately trying to prevent both high-mettled women from being at each other’s throats but failing gloriously.

“Guys…” Clarke tries again. She fidgets in her spot without anybody noticing.

“How…can…urgh…anybody,” Octavia voices between ragged breaths while she is almost on top of Raven, “be remotely as—Raven, what the fuck!?” Her surprised yelp fills the hall and radiates from the white painted walls as Raven lifts her up effortlessly. Octavia’s whole body goes tense in a second. She keeps a stern face, almost impossible to read wouldn’t it have been for Clarke, who has known Octavia since kindergarden.

Clarke’s voice is soft, but demanding when she says: “Raven, don’t be stupid, put her down. You know she hates it.”

“I know,” Raven shrugs. “That’s why I’m—“

She isn’t able to finish her sentence, when Octavia bites into her ear. A sudden sound, something between a sharp intake of air and a rough gasp, exits Ravens mouth and then all of a sudden everyone is petrified.

“Ms. Blake, Mr. Jordan…and Ms. Reyes,” an imposing shadow towers over the addressed group. “It’s nice to see you. Although it would have been more appropriate if Ms. Reyes stopped carrying employees and Ms. Blake kept her mouth to herself and her appetite at the cafeteria.” His deep, distasteful voice cuts the air like a sharp knife and settles between the four friends like a heavy curtain. “Mr. Jordan,” the older man says with an appraising look towards Jasper, who is about to pass out—if the unnatural green color spreading across his skin is any indication. “I think it would be best for everyone if you could escort Ms. Blake and Ms. Reyes back to their assigned offices. Clearly they woke up this morning and mistook The Arcadian Network for a school trip from middle school…and not for a respectable workplace where a certain protocol of behavior is set to be obligatory.” The older man nods just once, and Jasper is eager to follow his demand.

“Yes, Mr. Kane, Sir, absolutely. I’ll be on my way. I mean,” he wipes his clammy hands on his pants, “we’ll be on our way.” With an expression like a deer caught in headlights, blinded and scarred to death, he hurries down the hall. Two young women follow suit and glance sheepishly over their shoulders, heads held as low as possible.

Clarke can only watch them leave, catching a glimpse of Raven’s questioningly arched eyebrows before they disappear behind the distant corner at the end of the hallway. She barely has time to make up her mind about the situation evolving in front of her, when Kane turns to her.

“Ms. Griffin, I want you to meet Ms. Alexandria Woods.” He steps aside and motions for the other woman to join. 

She seems reluctant at first, part of her hidden behind Kane’s broad shoulders. But maybe reluctant is the wrong word to describer her. Her demeanor is based on indifference, paired with a hint of arrogance. In a slow motion she lifts her chin slightly. 

Clarke’s sure she is supposed to say something, maybe introduce herself for a start. Reach for her hand and shake it. Make small talk. Be charming. Okay, maybe just be nice. Be anything. Do anything. But Clarke stays where she is, not moving once, because the other woman’s eyes stare her down and physically pin her to the ground.

Alexandria Woods doesn’t move either. She interlocks her fingers behind her back and takes up a broad stance. Her black shoes are spotlessly clean. Her longs legs are dressed in tight dress pants which cling nicely to her hips. Her dazzlingly white blouse stretches a bit above her chest when she rolls back her shoulders.

Clarkes focuses on the now gaping button-down, the woman’s breasts highlighted by new creases. It looks quite nice, Clarke thinks. But then she feels a heavy gaze on her. The moment she looks up she knows she has been caught. Green eyes are burning a whole through her brain, daring her to comment. The woman’s jaw clenches visibly, her fine brows drawn together. She seems dangerous. And angry. And maybe Clarke really made a huge mistake by staring at the new colleague’s cleavage on their very first meeting. But Clarke is none to back down. She never has. She appreciates a challenge. Especially if the challenge seems so rigid and sure of herself. So Clarke holds her ground. It’s a staring contest without flinching on both sides.

Kane seems to notice the tense encounter, so he offers another introduction by clearing his throat. “Ms. Woods is our new Senior Project Manager starting two weeks from now. Due to the company’s restructuring she will be sharing an office with you until the company’s relocation is finalized in mid-December.”

Clarke flinches after all. There’s panic rising in her chest. Her breath hitches. Obviously she did just leer at a superior. On their very first meeting. Who will share her office. Until the end of time—because really, the network has been meaning to relocate for eleven months now. Awesome.

“Ms. Woods,” Kane continues, “this is Clarke Griffin. She’s one of the network’s Creative Producers for Digital Design.”

Clarke doesn’t know what to do. So she flips into autopilot, a faux smile plastered on her face, outstretching her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Alexandria,” she says.

“Ms. Woods is just fine,” the other woman replies flatly. She doesn’t take Clarke’s hand. Instead, without so much as looking at the blonde, she guides Mr. Kane down the hall, insistent to continue with the interrupted discussion they must have had before they approached Clarke and her friends.

Clarke hears a distant “So Marcus, tell me about the new strategy you have planned according to the network’s diversification…” They both disappear behind the corner at the end of the hall and Clarke is suddenly surrounded by utter silence. She exhales a long hold breath and a whispered, desperate “Fuck!” escapes her lips.


End file.
